Aunty Bell, with the big secret weighing at her heart, busied herself about the house, so as to make the hours pass quickly. She was more conservative and less impulsive in many things than the captain; that is, she was apt to consider the opinions of her neighbors, and shape her course accordingly, unless stopped by one of her husband’s outbursts and won over to his way of thinking. The captain knew no law but his own emotions, and his innate sense of right and wrong sustained by his indomitable will and courage. If the other folks didn’t like it, the other folks had to get out of the way; he went straight on. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to have nothin’ to do with Betty, if she does git tired of Lacey an’ wants to come home, poor child,” Aunty Bell had said to Captain Joe only the night before, as they sat together at supper. “Them Nevins gals was sayin’ yesterday they’d pass her on the road and wouldn’t speak to her, not if they see her starvin’, and was a-goin’ on awful about it; and Mis’ Taft said”— The captain raised his head quickly. “Jane Bell,”—when the captain called Aunty Bell “Jane” the situation was serious,—“I ain’t got nothin’ to do with them Nevins gals, nor Mis’ Taft, nor nobody else, and you ain’t got nothin’, neither. Ain’t we hed this child runnin’ in an’ out here jes’ like a kitten ever since we been here? Don’t you know clean down in yer heart that there ain’t no better gal ever lived 'n Betty? Ain’t we all liable to go ’stray, and ain’t we all of us so dirt mean that if we had our hatches off there ain’t nobody who see our cargo would speak to us? Now don’t let me hear no more about folks passin’ her by. I ain’t a-goin’ to pass her by, and you ain’t, neither, if them Nevins gals and old Mother Taft and the whole kit and caboodle of ’em walks on t’other side.” She remembered the very sound of these words, as she rested for a moment, rocking to and fro, in the kitchen, after the captain had gone, her fat little feet swinging clear of the floor. She could even hear the tone of his voice, and could see the flashing of his eye. The remembrance gave her courage. She wanted some one to come in, that she might put on the captain’s armor and fight for the child herself. She had not long to wait. Mrs. Taft was already coming up the walk,—for dinner, perhaps. Carleton was walking beside her. They had met at the gate. “I heard the captain had to go to New York, Aunty Bell, and so I thought maybe you’d be alone,” said Mrs. Taft, taking off her bonnet. “No news from the runaway, I suppose? Ain’t it dreadful? She’s the last girl in the world I would ’a’ thought of doing a thing like that.” “We ain’t none of us perfect, Mis’ Taft. Take a chair, Mr. Carleton. If we was, we could most of us stay here; there wouldn’t be no use o’ heaven.” “But, Aunty Bell!” exclaimed the visitor, “you surely don’t think—Why, it’s awful for Betty to go and do what she did”—